Marcus

Crossing the Illifen passes was considerably easier than Marcus had expected. These were old, tired mountains, worn gentle by the passage of years, a far cry from the craggy peaks of Murnsk. They used the High Gap, steepest of the three available routes, but even this was a gentle enough slope that the teams pulling the wagons and guns didn’t struggle. A good road ran from the banks of the river Marak, which dwindled into something more like a stream, and wound its way through the foothills of the mountains before passing through the gap.

Marcus was glad to see that Kurot had ordered Give-Em-Hell’s light cavalry ahead of the rest of the army. Janus was still supposed to be a hundred miles off, but even a small advance force at the far end of the gap could have caused serious difficulties. Fortunately, the riders reported no contact with the enemy, and the great blue stream of the Army of the Republic flowed over the saddle between the rounded heights and into the valley of the Pale.

Abby had reported no serious difficulties while he’d been away. According to Cyte, she’d never been filled in on the supernatural side of General Ihernglass’ activities, so he didn’t share his suspicions or what he’d learned at Mieranhal. He badly wanted to talk it over with Fitz, but he hadn’t been let in on the secret, either, and Marcus was wary of involving anyone who hadn’t seen proof firsthand. If someone had come to me with this story, I’d have probably thought they were crazy.

The second night out of the pass, an unseasonable thunderstorm blew in, drenching the ground and frightening the animals. It had died to a steady drizzle when a scratch came at Marcus’ tent flap, which turned out to be a lieutenant on Kurot’s staff, bearing an invitation. The Column-​General wanted a council of war.

“General d’Ivoire.” Kurot’s voice was warm as he came around the map table. Marcus saluted, but Kurot waved it away and shook his hand. “I hope your errand went satisfactorily.”

“Perfectly, sir. Personal business. Sorry to be away from the column.”

“Nothing to worry about.” Kurot smiled genially. “I knew you’d be here when it mattered.”

He gestured for Marcus to take a seat. Fitz and Val were already there, and shortly after de Manzet ducked in, shaking the rain from his jacket and murmuring apologies.

Kurot waved him off. “Welcome, General de Manzet. I believe this completes our little ensemble, since General Stokes is still in the field.”

He stood across the table from them, looking down at the map. His little wooden soldiers were deployed across it, a tight bunch in blue with a handful of horsemen and cannon. Across from them were figures dyed a deep burgundy. On one corner of the table stood the general’s ever-​present chessboard, where a game was in progress.

“The latest reports from our scouts are in,” Kurot said, sliding cavalry figures of both colors across the table. “Our patrols have crossed swords with Vhalnich’s outer cordon, and we still don’t have his precise dispositions. But his general intentions are obvious.” He began laying out red infantry on the map, behind its protective screen of cavalry. “His main body seems to be concentrated in the angle between the Daater and the Pale, with the intention of laying siege to Alves.”

Marcus looked at the map. The winding river Daater flowed roughly east to west, up to the point where the Pale slashed down diagonally from northeast to southwest. Between them they made an angle like a wedge of cheese. Alves, the largest city in the Pale valley, was pressed into the point of that wedge, where the two rivers met.

“Alves has strong, modern fortifications,” Kurot went on. “It will not fall quickly. On the surface, this appears to present a golden opportunity for us to advance and attack Vhalnich’s forces while they are pinned against the city.”

Marcus opened his mouth to speak, but Fitz got there first. “Where Janus is involved, sir, nothing is as it appears on the surface.”

Kurot smiled. “As you say, General Warus. All things considered, I believe this is a trap.” He paced, as though to survey the situation from every angle, then went to the chessboard. Pursing his lips, he pushed a pawn forward one space.

Theatrics, Marcus decided. Is he hoping we’re going to be impressed?

“The Daater is passable at several points,” Kurot said. “The Pale is deeper, but Vhalnich has control of several bridges upstream. Once we commit to attacking his army, which will no doubt be dug in, I would expect flanking forces to fall on us from both directions in a classic double envelopment.”

De Manzet scratched his nose. “The timing on that would be tricky. It’s a risky plan.”

“Exactly the sort of bold maneuver Vhalnich is known for.” Kurot adjusted his spectacles, smiling slightly. “It’s always worth knowing the character of your enemy. Having anticipated his moves, you can remain one step ahead.”

“We’re not going to attack, then?” Val said.

“Not directly. Amateurs think of war in terms of battles, General Solwen. Professionals think about lines of supply.” He picked up another figure, a stylized wooden wagon, and placed it astride the Pale upstream of Alves. “Janus is drawing his supplies from depots in the north, captured when the divisions at the frontier went over to him. His lines of communication run down the west bank of the Pale for the most part, protecting them from interference as long as the bridges are blocked. But at some point”—​he tapped the wagon—“they needs must switch to the east bank to support his siege.

“This is his point of vulnerability, gentlemen. He hopes that we will charge ahead, taking the bait, and attack him head-on. Instead we will strike here. Part of our force will proceed to Alves, appearing to fall into the trap. When he springs it, our main force will fall on one of his flanking columns and destroy it, while our detached force makes a fighting retreat. We will seize this bridge and block his line of supply, and then he will be forced to engage us on our terms or starve.”

It looked very neat, the blue soldiers slipping in behind the oblivious reds. Marcus was reminded of diagrams from his textbooks at the War College, which was undoubtedly what Kurot had in mind. He glanced surreptitiously at his fellow officers. Fitz’ face was guarded, as always, but Val looked skeptical, and de Manzet was deep in thought.

“Comments?” Kurot set his wooden soldiers down and smiled, though the expression seemed a little forced. “I do not expect you to obey like slaves. You are all”—​he glanced at Marcus—“experienced officers.”

Marcus cleared his throat. “It seems a little... complicated.”

Kurot’s smile became even more strained. “Military operations often are.”

“You assume that Janus will react as you expect,” Fitz said. “And this force serving to spring the trap”—​he indicated the most forward of the blue soldiers—“​could be in serious danger if Janus ignores the threat to his line of communication and presses his attack.”

“He won’t,” Kurot said. “The cardinal sin of any general is underestimating his adversary, and I do not intend to commit it. Vhalnich is too good a commander to simply allow his flank to be turned. If he committed to attacking the bait force, he might destroy it, but we would be in a position to capture his entire army. No. He’ll come north to fight once it becomes clear he’s in danger.”

“What about Alves?” Val said. “There must be a bridge there, and supplies.”

“Messengers have gotten out of the city in small boats,” Kurot said. “Colonel Vinkers is in command there, and he is certain of his ability to hold out for at least another four weeks. In the very worst case, I have ordered him to demolish the bridges and fire the magazines before surrendering. Vhalnich will not escape that way, have no fear.”

That seemed to be the last of the objections. After a moment of silence, Kurot straightened.

“Very good. Detailed orders will be on the way before nightfall, gentlemen. The diversionary force will be yours, General Solwen, including much of the cavalry reserve. General d’Ivoire, you’ll have the lead for the attack against Vhalnich’s flanking force, when it shows itself. The rest of the army will follow and be ready to deal with Vhalnich’s primary attack. We complete our approach march tomorrow, and barring any unexpected developments, the plan goes into effect at first light the day after.”

All four generals rose and saluted. “Yes, sir.”

“God be with you all,” Kurot said. “Vordan is relying on your valor.”

*

“It’s hard to know what to think,” Val said, hunkering a little deep into his coat. He and Marcus rode together back up the road from where Kurot and his staff had camped. The rain was only a drizzle now. “If something goes wrong, I’m the one who’s going to be up the creek.”

“If it works, you’re the one who’s going to get all the credit,” Marcus pointed out. “Tip of the spear and all that.”

“Kurot will get the credit, you mean.” Val shook his head, a dribble of water running out of his cap. “Let him, honestly. As long as my men come back alive.”

“He seems to be taking Janus seriously, at least.”

“I suppose.” Val hunched his shoulders. “I can’t help but wish you were in command, Marcus. What would you do if you were in Kurot’s place?”

“I’m trying not to think about it,” Marcus said. “Panic, most likely.”

Val laughed. “I don’t think you’ve ever panicked in your life.”

You didn’t see me when dead men rose up with glowing green eyes, Marcus thought. But he said, “You just need to be careful. Remember you’re not intended to fight a major engagement, just give the impression that you’re ready to. And Give-Em-Hell will be there.”

“There’s that. After what happened in Murnsk, half the army thinks he’s practically superhuman.” He brushed his horse’s mane with one hand, sodden hair squelching. “I have a bad feeling, is all.”

“You always have a bad feeling, Val. It’s just nerves. Remember that tactics exam where you took class first?”

“I threw up just beforehand. In my boot.” Val smiled faintly. “Had to chuck it out the window and take the test in one sock.”

“Exactly.”

“There’s a little bit more riding on this than drinks at the Hafhouse, though.”

“I know.” Val had changed, too, Marcus realized. You couldn’t hold the lives of thousands of men in your hands and not change. Not unless you’re Janus bet Vhalnich, I suppose. “I think when we’re done you won’t have to buy your own drinks for a long time.”

“There’s a happy thought. Adrecht would have volunteered for the assignment just for that.”

Marcus laughed and clapped Val on the shoulder. Ahead, he could see the lights of the Second Division camp, and he waved to his old friend and turned off the road. His horse squelched across the sodden fields. He acknowledged the sentry’s challenge and then her salute as he came closer, and threaded his way through the outer ring of tents to his own.

Cyte was waiting for him, and mercifully she’d thought to save him a plate from dinner. Pork, apples, and some kind of bitter greens reminded him of the food from Mieran County, though the preparation was less artful. Enjoy it while it lasts. When they went on the attack, they’d probably be moving too fast to gather supplies, and the army would go back on good old dried meat and hardtack.

“Anything I should know about?” Marcus said, chewing vigorously. He swallowed and reached for his canteen.

“Not really, sir. A few out sick, but fewer than last week. The new recruits are toughening up. Colonel Erdine is complaining that the weather is hard on his horses.”

“Tell him that when I figure out how to give orders to the weather, I’ll take care of it.”

“Noted, sir. Any new orders from the general?”

“Mmm,” Marcus said, mouth full. After a moment, he went on. “I’m expecting written orders soon, so I don’t know how much I can tell you. But you can pass the word that we should expect action before long.”

Cyte nodded grimly. Everyone had known that was coming, of course. But to the recruits, the immediate prospect of combat was always something they had to work themselves up to, and it was better to warn them than to let it take them by surprise. Even the veterans could be forgiven for worrying a little, going up against Janus. I sure as hell do.

When the written set of orders arrived, Marcus was amused, though unsurprised, to find that they were both thorough and verbose. His line of march was spelled out in detail, complete with approximate times he was expected to reach certain landmarks and where his nearest supports would be positioned at each stage. If Marcus had sent it across an instructors’ desk at the War College, he would have received extra marks. After years in the field, though, all he could do was wonder what would go wrong first.

*

Rain, it turned out. Rain mixed with dirt made mud, and mud was a soldier’s worst enemy.

He’d hoped the thunderstorm would pass on, giving them clear weather, but more gray clouds rolled in behind it. It rained all the next day, not the torrential downpour of the night before but a steady, solid curtain of water. Marcus ordered an early start, but it wasn’t long before the familiar problems started to trickle in. Thousands of marching feet churned even the stoutest road into mush. Wagons got stuck, guns foundered, and horses injured themselves. Traffic jams grew from these seeds and stretched on for miles.

Val’s Third Division had the lead, and the schedule called for them to reach Grenvol on the Daater by noon. In fact, Val’s outlying pickets made contact with Give-Em-Hell’s cavalry, holding the town, closer to two thirty, and he wasn’t actually crossing the bridge until after three. That took longer than expected, too—​whoever had written up the timetable hadn’t accounted for the bottleneck the narrow bridge presented. Marcus’ troops, who were next in line, had plenty of time to close up ranks before it was their turn to file over the churning water. A few civilians came out to cheer them on, but the rain seemed to have dampened everyone’s spirits.

The march went on until long after dark, but even with the lengthened hours they ended up well short of their planned campsite, still between the Daater and the small river Ixa. General Kurot was waiting when Marcus finally arrived at the camp himself, soaked through and spattered with mud after a day spent herding soldiers and finding crews to rescue bogged-​down equipment.

“General d’Ivoire,” Kurot said. He had a rain cape with a raised hood, keeping the damp from his uniform, though spray still fogged his spectacles.

“General Kurot,” Marcus said. “The last of my division is coming in now, sir.”

“We are still short of the Ixa,” Kurot said. That was the scheduled jumping-​off point for the move against Janus.

“I realize that, sir,” Marcus said, and gestured at the heavens. “We’ve been lucky to get this far in this mess.”

Kurot’s lips were pressed into a thin line. “Then it is your opinion that it is impossible to regain the original timetable?”

Is he joking? “Yes, sir,” Marcus said cautiously. It’s not my opinion; it’s a fucking fact.

“Very well.” Kurot let out a breath and closed his eyes, with the air of someone taking the high road. “We will allow one more day to get across the Ixa, and plan the attack for the morning of the day after tomorrow.”

“Understood, sir!” Marcus said.

“I will inform General Solwen.” Kurot inclined his head. “I expect better results tomorrow, General.”

The rain stopped around midnight. That was cheering, but it would be some time before the mud dried out, and the next day’s march suffered from most of the same problems. Despite Kurot’s admonition, Marcus was pleased with the way the Second Division handled the adversity. The veterans in the Girls’ Own and the other regiments didn’t complain when he rounded up teams to haul lines or lift guns. They just rolled up their sleeves and did it, and that attitude spread to the recruits. Several times Marcus responded to a call for help to find that a passing company had pitched in unprompted, unsnarling the line before he even needed to intervene.

“A little mud is nothing,” he heard one older woman telling a wide-​eyed young man, “when you’ve been to Murnsk and seen blizzards in July.”

Cavalry patrols returned regularly, reporting running skirmishes with their opposite numbers. They were unable to penetrate the enemy cordon, so Janus’ exact position was unknown, but the orientation of his cavalry screen told them that he was still somewhere around Alves. Meanwhile, Give-Em-Hell’s men worked hard to prevent anyone who got within sight of the Army of the Republic from getting away. That would be especially crucial in the morning, when Val’s division would split off for its diversionary march west.

That night, after shedding his mud-​spattered clothes, Marcus reread his orders for the next day and sent for Cyte. She turned up promptly, her boots flaking dried mud whenever she moved.

“Sorry, sir,” she said. “Haven’t had the chance to brush them.”

“Don’t worry about it.” He tapped the orders. “We’re leading the charge tomorrow. There’s a town called Satinvol with a bridge over the Pale. Kurot wants us to take it by nightfall.”

“Understood, sir.”

Marcus frowned. He didn’t like this next part, but however he twisted himself there didn’t seem to be a way out of it.

“If the enemy has dug into the town itself,” he said slowly, “in your opinion, which regiment would be best suited to handle the attack?”

“The Girls’ Own, sir,” Cyte said, without hesitation. “They have the most experience in loose-​order tactics. General Ihernglass generally deployed the entire regiment as skirmishers, with Sevran’s Second Regiment leading the close-​order assault.”

“That’s what I thought,” Marcus said. So tomorrow I’m going to order a bunch of young women to charge into musket-​fire. He clenched his jaw. I promised Abby I’d do what’s best without being... old-​fashioned about it. It still felt wrong. “All right. We’ll see where they make their stand, assuming they decide to put up a fight at all.”

He found himself desperately hoping they wouldn’t, that the clash between blue and blue could be delayed just a little bit longer. But he could read a map as well as Kurot could, and Satinvol was the closest upstream crossing to Alves. He’s not wrong. If we take it, we’ll be well and truly on Janus’ supply line. I just hope that’s not exactly where Janus wants us.

*

The next morning, the drummers woke the camp as soon as the first hints of light infiltrated the eastern sky. As the gray faded slowly to pale blue, the Second Division shook itself out, like a dog emerging from a pond. Tents were struck and left in piles for the baggage train to collect. The regiments formed up on the road to Satinvol. In the lead was Erdine’s cavalry, charged with scouting ahead and keeping the column from being surprised. Then came the Girls’ Own, two thousand young women in columns of companies for quick marching. They called cheerfully to one another in the predawn light, taunts and half-​eager, half-​anxious banter. Some soldiers responded that way to the prospect of combat, Marcus knew. He could see others staring at their shoes, as though intent on memorizing every detail, or murmuring prayers, or checking and rechecking their kit.

Behind them came Archer’s divisional artillery, one battery of twelve-​pounders and one of six-​pounders, still limbered to their caissons, facing backward. Marcus wanted the guns in position as soon as possible, though it risked slowing the overall march if they got snarled. Archer knew his business, though, and the alternative, to arrive with no supporting artillery, would be much worse.

On the other side of the guns was Sevran’s Second Regiment, a unit of “royals” who’d been in service since before the revolution. In theory, anyway—​in practice, Marcus guessed that casualties and replacements meant only a fraction actually had been around that long. It was part of their mystique, though, the image of themselves that the veterans passed down to the new recruits, and it showed in their neat uniforms and well-​dressed ranks, in the way they held themselves superior to the sloppier volunteers. The line of blue continued down the road, out of Marcus’ view, but he knew that de Koste’s Third Regiment and Blackstream’s Fourth were waiting for the men in front of them to step out. Nine thousand soldiers, give or take, holding themselves ready for Marcus’ order.

He’d commanded a larger force in Murnsk. But somehow it didn’t change the feeling of power, the sense of potentiality, of enormous energy coiled and ready to be hurled like the thunderbolt of a pagan god.

The sun finally crested the mountains to the east, a sliver of gold breaking clear of the peaks. Marcus, sitting uncomfortably astride his horse, beckoned to Cyte and watched enviously as she brought her mount over with barely a touch on the reins.

“Signal the advance,” he said. “Then go to Erdine and remind him that I want him to be careful. It’s four hours to Satinvol, but if Kurot’s right and Janus’ troops are advancing, we could end up in a meeting engagement anytime before then. Make sure we’ve got riders ready to send back for support.”

“Sir!” Cyte saluted, turned her mount, and hurried off.

A few moments later, the drums trilled for attention, then settled into the steady rhythm of the marching pace. The Girls’ Own started forward, each battalion’s drummers picking up the rhythm, and then the guns rumbled into motion. Within minutes, smooth as a parade, the whole division was advancing down the road. General Ihernglass certainly kept them in good shape. Marcus got his horse moving, staying by the side of the road ahead of the artillery.

The country they were moving through was farmland, with the crops mostly already harvested, so he had a good view as the sun rose higher. Hedges divided the fields on either side of the road, with a few small farmhouses and the occasional village visible in the distance. Up ahead, he could see the cloud of dust and occasional flashes of blue from Val’s Third Division, moving roughly perpendicular to his own course. In accordance with Kurot’s plan, Val was taking the road southwest to Alves, to convince Janus that the enemy was obligingly strolling into his trap. Behind Marcus, invisible through the dust of his own trailing battalions, the rest of the army was scheduled to fall in, with Fitz serving as a rear guard ready to blunt the other half of Janus’ theoretical double pincer.

Stop, Marcus told himself firmly. It was easy to fret about the overall situation, but that wasn’t his role at the moment. There’s nothing I can do for Val or Fitz. What was important today was what was in front of him, the mission of the Second Division and what the enemy might do to stop him. He tried to recapture the proper state of mind for a subordinate commander—​the firm resolution that if things did go badly wrong it wouldn’t be because his own part had been fucked up.

The sun crawled higher. They passed through the crossroads where Val had turned off, a village of a couple dozen homes whose inhabitants had either fled or hidden. Beyond it was a slight ridge topped by a few trees, and after confirming with Erdine that his men had already been over the ground, Marcus trotted to the top of it to take advantage of the slight elevation. The Pale valley was very flat here, sloping gently down to the river with only a few hills like this one, and even from its modest height Marcus could see quite a long way. Ahead of him, the fields unrolled for miles, until they reached the broad, sparkling band of the river. He could see Satinvol, a dense cluster of houses, with several high-​steepled churches. Between his leading battalion and the town, there was nothing but more fields—​no marching soldiers, no sign of defenses.

So the envelopment Kurot anticipated either isn’t coming or hasn’t arrived yet. There could be soldiers out there, lying in wait behind hedges, but Erdine’s cavalry screen would flush them out. He pulled out his spyglass and focused it on Satinvol, but at this distance he couldn’t make out much more than a mass of buildings. If they’re on this side of the river, that’s where they are. His assignment, if no enemy presented themselves for a field battle, was to take the Satinvol bridge. It was possible Janus would yield it without a fight, but Marcus doubted it.

As the column wound past, he came down from the hill to rejoin it, looking for Cyte. When he found her, he waved her over and said, “Tell Erdine to push a squadron forward all the way to Satinvol, but not to get too close. If he gets shot at, he should come back. If not, ask him to look and see if the houses have been prepared for defense—​loopholes, barricades, that sort of thing.”

Cyte nodded and rode off. Marcus glanced at the sun. It was barely nine in the morning, and already the day felt old. Ahead of him, the Girls’ Own were singing a marching tune he didn’t recognize. Whether they’d heard it somewhere or invented it themselves, it was in the grand tradition of soldiers’ road songs in being spectacularly filthy, and Marcus found himself grinning despite the tension.

Erdine’s answer came back almost an hour later. The colonel himself rode up, falling in beside Marcus, and saluted flamboyantly. The huge feather in his cap quivered with each step of his horse, and the polished silver and brass on his uniform glittered.

“Sir!” Erdine said. “Report that we got within a hundred yards of the outskirts of Satinvol, sir, and then we were fired on by sharpshooters. One man wounded, not seriously. I observed soldiers in Vordanai uniforms among the houses, and definite signs that the position had been prepared for defense.”

Balls of the Beast. Marcus had been afraid of that. Storming a defended town was always a nasty business, and there was no way of knowing how many enemy there were or what reinforcements they might have available. “No sign of troops outside the town?”

“No, sir. We haven’t seen anything larger than a rabbit since we left this morning.”

“I want you to send a rider back there under flag of truce. Tell him to ask for whoever’s in charge, and deliver a message from Column-​General d’Ivoire. The town of Satinvol is likely to become the site of fighting today, and in respect of the fact that we are all Vordanai fighting in Vordanai territory, I request that he deliver this warning to the civilians and urge them to evacuate as quickly as possible.”

“Understood, sir.” Erdine hesitated. “You don’t think that’s going to warn them of our intention to attack?”

“I think they already know about that, Colonel. We can’t cross the river any other way, so we have to come straight at them. Besides, it’s the only decent thing to do.” I have enough on my conscience as it is.

“Yes, sir!” Erdine nodded, feather bobbing, and rode off. Marcus called for a runner, and found himself facing a girl no more than fourteen years old. She still rides better than I do.

“Find General Kurot,” he said. “Tell him we’ve encountered nothing short of Satinvol, but the enemy has dug in there and intends to defend the town. I’ll begin the assault as soon as my troops are in position. Anything he can spare from the artillery reserve would help, but we absolutely must have at least a battery of howitzers.”

“Got it, sir!” The young soldier turned her horse about and kicked it to a gallop, back down the road the way they’d come.

A mile short of the town, Marcus took the column off the road and got ready for combat. He told Abby to throw the first battalion of the Girls’ Own forward as skirmishers, pairs of soldiers spreading out over a wide front. The second battalion stayed formed up as a reserve, with the other regiments taking up formation beside it. Archer unlimbered his guns from their caissons and hooked the teams to the cannon themselves, dragging them forward across the furrowed, muddy earth. The Girls’ Own front line advanced in time, staying ahead of the artillery.

The first shot came from the enemy’s lines, a flower of gray smoke blooming from the gap between two houses. Marcus could see the cannonball in flight, seeming to hang motionless in midair at the apex of its trajectory for a moment before descending with shocking speed to hit the ground in a spray of earth. It bounced, landing again in another miniature explosion, and then again, the interval steadily decreasing like that of a rock skipping across a pond. The range was much too long, though, and the ball came to a halt well short of the approaching lines. Marcus imagined some lieutenant being scolded for opening fire too early, giving away the concealed gun’s position.

If they have a lot of artillery in there, this is going to be a tough nut to crack. He’d managed to put it out of his head that it was his own people across the field, commanded by his old commander and, maybe, friend. They were just “the enemy,” as usual, once the cannon started to roar. We’re going to need those howitzers. He was still ahorse, near where the Girls’ Own reserve was waiting, watching the guns bump across the uneven ground.

Archer deployed the first half battery at eight hundred yards, long range for twelve-​pounders. On the other hand, he didn’t have any target smaller than a house, so accuracy wasn’t really necessary. The teams were well trained, and before long the six guns were shrouded in smoke. Hollow booms echoed across the field, weirdly out of sync with the muzzle flashes. It took only a few tries before the cannoneers had their solid shot plowing into the buildings on the outskirts. Plaster billowed from every hit, and roofs caved in or sprayed fragments of slate tiles. Marcus devoutly hoped the civilians had heeded his warning.

The second half battery went into action at five hundred yards, close enough to bowl shots into the buildings end-on rather than arcing them down at a high angle. In the town, someone’s patience cracked, and all at once the defending artillery opened fire. Marcus counted a dozen or more muzzle flashes, earth flying up all around Archer’s batteries to mix with the smoke. Archer’s men adjusted their aim in turn, shots probing the smoky rubble for the flashes of their opponents. An isolated cannon was a hard target to hit, though, and at this range the duel could go on all day.

Marcus didn’t intend to wait that long. The Girls’ Own kept advancing, a thin, uneven line of blue. A few of Erdine’s horsemen, keeping an eye on the town, retired past the advancing skirmishers with waving caps, trotting back toward the rest of the cavalry. Marcus’ hands tightened on the reins as the women closed the range.

At two hundred yards, the defending cannon gave up trying to hit Archer’s long-​range guns and switched to canister, spraying musket balls like giant shotguns. The skirmishers made for poor targets, but a few blue-​coated figures began to fall, punched backward off their feet or collapsing in place like broken puppets. Archer’s second battery, the six-​pounders, went into action, slamming canisters of their own back at the enemy positions. Marcus’ mind filled in the sounds of breaking glass and the pock, pock, pock of balls tearing into plaster.

A hundred and fifty yards, and the defending musketeers opened fire. That was very long range, which meant the commander in the town either was incompetent or had no concerns about running out of ammunition. Marcus guessed the latter—​certainly if Janus had anticipated a defense of this position, he would have made certain it was well stocked. The Girls’ Own held their fire until half that distance, one of each pair of skirmishers bringing her weapon up to sight and fire, then ducking away to reload while her partner took her turn. From this vantage point, the enemy were invisible except for the smoke puffing out of the damaged buildings, but they had to be getting the best of the exchange. The fields offered only scattered rocks and hedges for cover, not loopholed buildings and stone walls.

Archer’s first half battery, farthest out, had fallen silent, and Marcus could see the teams reattaching themselves to the guns, getting ready to close the range. Good man. After another few moments, Marcus turned his horse and rode over to the second battalion of the Girls’ Own, waiting in close order while their companions fought and died. Sevran’s Second Regiment was just behind them, and Sevran himself was on foot with Abby, watching the distant flashes of the fighting.

“Sir,” Abby said, as Marcus approached. “My girls need support.”

“So they do,” Marcus said. “Colonel Sevran?”

The colonel came to attention. “Sir?”

“Storm those houses, please. Close columns.”

“Yes, sir.” Sevran gave a crisp salute. “We’ll have them for you in thirty minutes, sir.”

He jogged off, and moments later the drummers of the Second Regiment started up. Abby looked up at Marcus.

“I hope you haven’t forgotten your promise,” she said.

“There’ll be plenty of action for everyone,” Marcus said grimly. “Once we get past the outskirts, it’ll be house to house. I want half of the Girls’ Own left fresh for that.”

He knew the soldiers closest in the ranks could hear that, and it was rapidly passed by whispers down the line. Abby nodded, also hearing the whispers, and raised her voice. “We’ll sharpen our bayonets, then.”

*

There was, as Marcus had expected, a second defensive line ready behind the first.

Sevran’s attack, delivered with considerable skill and courage, had driven a wedge into the enemy line. Despite the gaps blown in their ranks by the canister and musketry, the Second Regiment had kept its formation until the last moment, then charged in a mass with lowered bayonets up the streets and into the ruined houses that marked the border of Satinvol. Archer’s gunners, closer now, switched their fire to the edges of the spreading conflict, and more houses began to show the scars of cannonballs.

When it became clear to the defenders that Sevran’s men could not be dislodged, they pulled back through the streets of Satinvol to a second set of positions. The Girls’ Own skirmishers followed them carefully, the rattle of musketry almost continuous as the contest of ambush and counterambush began. Marcus could see almost nothing now, just a few ruined buildings and the rising smoke, but he could imagine it—​small assaults, rushes of a dozen or two dozen men and women at a time, a building captured or lost, fierce battles for possession of a shed or a back garden.

Girls who ought to still be under their mothers’ skirts lying bloody and broken in back alleys, or clutching shattered limbs, or screaming as their guts are ripped open by bayonets...

He swallowed hard. They want to be there. They demanded it. It’s war. But it still felt like a monstrosity.

True to his word, though, he’d ordered the second battalion of the Girls’ Own in when the attack bogged down. Abby went with them, walking ahead of her troops, waving them into position with her sword. Marcus moved closer himself, now that the enemy guns had pulled back, and brought the Third and Fourth Regiments with him. Fighting in towns was always devilish business. A formed unit, under its commander’s tight control, could deliver a charge with considerable impetus, but it wasn’t very long before it would get tied up in a hundred tiny battles. And getting a unit out again once the battle had started was nearly impossible. So skirmishes had a tendency to take on a life of their own, becoming a maelstrom that sucked in well-​ordered troops and spat out dazed fragments.

A colonel from the artillery reserve arrived, leading a battery of a dozen howitzers. The squat, wide-​barreled guns looked more like cook pots than cannon. They were designed to lob powder-​filled bombs in a high trajectory, and were direct descendants of the catapults that had hurled stones over the walls of medieval castles. Howitzers were notoriously inaccurate, but in a situation like this, with the enemy pinned to his defenses, they were just the thing. Marcus quickly set them to firing at the inner perimeter of Satinvol, just in front of the bridge, where the enemy reserves and supplies had to be massed. Soon fires were burning in several places, columns of black smoke rising to mix with gray drifts rising off the battlefield.

*

Noon came and went. Marcus had only the most tenuous grasp of the shape of the battle, relying on hurried reports from commanders who knew only what they could see on one particular street. Janus’ troops were falling back, but they hadn’t cracked yet. Whenever things seemed stuck, Marcus fed in a fresh battalion from his rapidly dwindling reserve to get the attack moving again. By four in the afternoon, he was feeling, if not sanguine, then at least reasonably confident. If Janus had a big reserve to throw into a counterattack, he’d have used it by now. The narrowing enemy front was rapidly contracting to the footing of the bridge itself, and a counterattack over the bridge would be suicidal.

Not that Marcus expected to actually cross. Destroying bridges once you had no further use for them was standard practice, and he fully anticipated Janus would have left orders to demolish the span once his defenders had bought all the time they could. Only a quick rush could hope to take a bridge intact, and the drawn-​out struggle had left no chance of that here. That was inevitable, though. At least we’ll have cut his supply line as intended. The rest of the battle didn’t seem to be going according to plan, or indeed happening at all. There was no sound of artillery from behind him, no clouds of smoke rising from the southwest. If Janus was still in front of Alves, he hadn’t marched to keep Kurot out of his rear.

As if thinking the man’s name had summoned him, a mounted party came into view from the east, picking their way across the shot-​torn fields. Marcus had moved his command post to just outside the town, not far from where the cutters had set up their aid stations. Casualty parties were still fetching the wounded from the parts of Satinvol that had fallen under his control, and the usual horror of triage and treatment had begun. Marcus could see Hannah Courvier, the Girls’ Own’s regimental cutter, prowling the lines of blue-​coated bodies, bloody to the elbows like a monster from a children’s story.

“General d’Ivoire,” Kurot said as he rode up. Fitz was with him, and several staff officers Marcus didn’t recognize. Kurot’s face was an icy mask, and his voice dripped impatience. “Report your progress.”

“Sir.” Marcus saluted. “We’ve taken most of the town on this bank of the river, sir, and we’re approaching the bridge. The enemy was expecting us and was heavily dug in. We’ve captured four guns and prisoners from at least five regiments.”

“You’re behind schedule,” Kurot snapped. “My calculations show that you should have had the bridge by noon if no enemy force came forward to confront you in the field.”

“With respect, Column-​General, the enemy have been buying time, and doing it as well as I’d expect of Grand Army soldiers. But it won’t be long now.”

“It had better not be,” Kurot said. “I suggest you move forward, General d’Ivoire, and discover what’s causing the delay. Apply the whips if necessary.”

“Sir—” Marcus gritted his teeth. “Yes, sir. As you say.”

Kurot rode off without a word, his staff trailing him like the tail of a kite. Only Fitz remained, dismounting and beckoning to Marcus. They walked a few steps away from the nearby soldiers, and Fitz spoke in a low voice.

“He’s in a foul mood,” he said. “Janus hasn’t been playing along.”

“I gathered that,” Marcus said. “What’s happened? Any word from Val?”

“He’s engaged Janus’ pickets, but there’s been no serious fighting, so he’s still pushing forward. But scouting reports are confused. Some of them say that Alves has already fallen, betrayed from within or overtaken by demons.” Fitz waggled his eyebrows. “Others tell us the city is still holding out. Kurot doesn’t know what to think.”

“If Alves has fallen and Janus has the bridge there, this sideshow isn’t worth any more lives,” Marcus said.

“He doesn’t believe the city could fall so quickly,” Fitz said. “And if it did, he’s certain the defenders would at least have demolished the bridge.”

“He may be right,” Marcus said. “They’re certainly fighting hard here.”

Fitz nodded. “He’s got us moving south, to link up with Val tomorrow morning. I imagine you’ll bring up the rear once you’re finished here.”

“Thanks for the warning,” Marcus said. He looked around for Kurot and saw the general inspecting the one battalion of Blackstream’s troops that remained in reserve. “I’d better go forward and see what’s happening before he decides to take command himself.”

“Good luck,” Fitz said. “And be careful.”

*

Satinvol was like something out of a nightmare. Cannonballs had wreaked havoc on the outskirts, punching through walls and cracking beams, leaving the houses leaning drunkenly against one another or lying in shattered piles of rubble. Broken roof tiles were everywhere, littering the streets like gray hail. Smaller craters from musket balls pocked the plaster.

Bodies lay all over, clustered behind temporary barricades or sprawled in the street. Almost all of them were dressed in blue, which to Marcus’ eyes made the field look like the site of a particularly one-​sided massacre. It was impossible to tell who had been on which side, except when the broken rag doll shapes were women. There was, as far as Marcus knew, no Girls’ Own on the other side. The sickening smell of torn guts and blood mixed nauseatingly with the gritty tang of powder smoke.

Casualty teams hurried back and forth, searching the bodies for those with a spark of life. In the Girls’ Own, this duty was carried out by women too young or too small to hold a musket in the line, and Marcus kept running into children in blue uniforms carrying stretchers. They ignored him, rolling bodies off a pile to get to the source of the groans coming from underneath, heedless of the sticky, thickening blood coating their hands. Marcus’ throat was tight.

As he approached the bridge, the sound of musketry got louder. Not eager to wander into the line of fire, he got directions from a passing soldier, and followed a back alley to reach Abby’s command post. She was crouched behind a barricade made from a wagon pulled sideways across the alley entrance, a couple of Girls’ Own soldiers with her. Beyond was a street liberally scattered with bodies, facing a tall, square building standing on its own. Past that was the footing of the bridge, a gently sloped stone span that crossed the wide river in three low arches.

“General,” Abby said. “Keep your head down, please.”

“What’s going on?”

“I gather that’s the rivermaster’s office,” Abby said. “Three stories tall and mostly stone. They’ve turned it into a blockhouse, and it’s a real bastard. Got to be a couple hundred men left in there.”

“You’ve got men—​soldiers—​around the sides?” Marcus said. He could see puffs of smoke rising from the buildings there.

“Working on it,” Abby said. “We’re in range of the bridge now. Nobody is getting out of there alive unless we let them.”

“You’ve asked them to surrender?”

“Twice. Dog-​fuckers won’t even acknowledge a truce flag. They just keep firing.”

Marcus frowned. That didn’t sound like Janus.

“What are you doing here?” Abby said, while he looked the situation over.

“Kurot sent me to hurry things along,” Marcus said with a grimace. “His words, not mine.”

“I’ve lost at least a hundred soldiers trying to charge that thing. If he thinks I’m throwing any more lives away, he can get fucked.” Abby shook her head. “Archer’s bringing up a couple of twelve-​pounders. Once he’s ready, we can blast the bastards right out of there.”

“Don’t change the plan on my account. How long until he gets here?”

“Shouldn’t be long. I’ll go find him. Stay here, and by all the saints, keep your head down. The bastards have been taking potshots, and they’re pretty damn good at it.”

Abby turned and ran back down the alley in a crouch, with a lieutenant in tow. A sergeant and two rankers remained with Marcus, pressed against the barricade. Musketry cracked and rattled all around.

The sergeant was a big woman, around Marcus’ age, broad-​shouldered and heavily muscled. She looked at him with undisguised curiosity, while the two young rankers kept their eyes averted. Marcus shifted awkwardly under her attention, not sure if he should speak.

“Hell of a day,” she said eventually.

“It is,” Marcus answered lamely.

“Hope this bridge is worth it.”

Marcus could only nod. General Kurot thinks it is. That was the only answer he had, and what kind of an answer was that?

He was saved the trouble of further conversation by the boom of a cannon, close by. An explosion of masonry and stone splinters cascaded from the side of the rivermaster’s office, quickly obscured by a cloud of dust. A second shot clipped a corner off the roof, spraying broken tiles.

Abby must have found her guns. Now she would offer surrender again—​no matter how dedicated they were, no soldiers would want to die in a collapsing building, unable to fight back. They’ll have to give in—

Three sets of big doors along the base of the building opened at once, and a crowd burst out at a dead run. For a moment Marcus thought the place was already falling in on itself and they were scrambling to get clear. But every one of them had a musket in hand, with bayonet fixed, and they weren’t shouting for quarter.

The half second of shock let them get out into the street. Then Abby’s voice, shrill with alarm, rose over the field. “Fire! Fire!”

Muskets roared, an impromptu volley that fringed the street with fire and smoke, Second Division soldiers shooting from every window and alley facing the blockhouse. The oncoming men, caught in the open, were scythed down by the dozens. The shock would have broken any charge Marcus had ever seen, but this one seemed impervious, the attackers stepping over the broken bodies of their comrades as though they weren’t there. They were coming in a furious mass straight across the street, right toward—

Right toward me. Marcus backed away from the wagon. His three companions had all fired and were frantically reloading their muskets. Marcus tore his pistol from its holster, checked his sword, and waited.

“Get to the rear, sir,” the sergeant said, slamming her ramrod home. “We’ll hold—”

Marcus shook his head. Before he could reply, the first of the attackers scrambled up and over the barricade, musket held in one hand. Marcus sighted carefully and shot him in the chest as he stood up. He toppled backward without a cry, and two more men replaced him, clawing their way up the wagon and edging forward. They raised their weapons like spears, and for a moment Marcus thought there was something wrong with their eyes. They glowed red from the inside, like they’d been replaced with hot coals.

The sergeant finished loading, shouldered her weapon, and shot one of the men. The second one, dressed in Murnskai white instead of Vordanai blue, dropped off the wagon in front of her, and she slammed him in the face with the butt of her musket. Bone crunched, and he went down. But another three were already climbing, while musket-​fire went on and on from the buildings all around them. How many can be left? How can they keep coming?

One of the rankers, a small, mousy girl with long brown hair, shot wildly and missed. The other, a brawny teen built more like the sergeant, managed to catch one of the next wave of climbers, his head disintegrating in a shower of bone. The three on the wagon jumped down, coordinating with the ease of men who’d fought together before, though one was Vordanai and two Murnskai. The sergeant gave ground, parrying the stroke of a bayonet, and the two rankers stepped up beside her. Marcus drew his sword and joined them as two more attackers came over.

For a few moments, he lost his awareness of the larger situation in the heat of thrust and parry. The attackers were good, quick and well trained, working together smoothly and apparently completely without fear. Marcus got the better of one of them, getting around his bayonet and breaking his arm with the pommel of his saber. His wounded opponent closed in, taking a deep cut to the side but fouling Marcus’ stance, and he was forced to jump sideways to avoid being skewered by another. In the clear for a moment, he saw the sergeant bury her bayonet in one man’s chest only to be struck from behind—​the man whose jaw she’d broken had levered himself up and thrust his own weapon into the small of her back, heedless of his injury. She stiffened and stumbled forward, and two more attackers cut her down. The mousy girl was bleeding, her left arm hanging useless, and the other ranker was cornered. Her attacker tossed his weapon aside, grabbing her by both shoulders and pulling her close as if for a kiss.

Marcus charged, saber swinging. He chopped through one assailant, spun, and put his weight behind a swing that took the ranker’s attacker in the neck and nearly removed his head. He crumpled in a welter of blood, and Marcus spun back to the other ranker just in time to see the remaining enemy bat her weak parry aside and spear her in the gut with his bayonet. Shouting with rage, Marcus opened the man’s back with a downward slash, his dirty white Murnskai uniform turning crimson as it soaked up the gore. The mousy girl, hand pressed to her wound, slowly slid down the wall of the alley, leaving a smear of blood when she tried to prop herself up. He looked at him, and then behind him, and her mouth moved in a warning.

Marcus lurched sideways. Not far enough. A bayonet jabbed into his left shoulder, a hot spike of pain that left him breathless. He spun away, the weapon tearing free from the wound. His saber was already coming around, and he was expecting to see another man in dirty blue or white—

It was the ranker, the brawny teen, musket in hand. She’d just bayoneted him, and she was winding up for another try. Her eyes glowed bright enough to cast flickering shadows.

Marcus’ arm moved automatically. He sidestepped her thrust and rammed his saber home, blade going in just under her breastbone. She let her weapon drop and stumbled forward, hands grabbing at his arms. As her breath bubbled in her throat, she tried to pull herself up, raising her crimson eyes to stare into Marcus’. He felt paralyzed, one hand still on the saber embedded in her chest. The red light grew brighter, nearly filling the world.

Then the girl’s legs gave out, and the moment was broken. She collapsed, sliding off of Marcus’ sword, and flopped motionless in the dirt.

Saints and martyrs. For a moment all Marcus could see was red. What in the name of all the fucking saints was that? Why would she...?

The other ranker moaned. Marcus shook himself and went to her side. She was sitting up against the wall of the alley, breathing in quick, ragged gasps, one hand pressed over the hole in her gut, fingers already slick with blood. A glance told Marcus that she was finished, if not immediately from loss of blood then later, when the gut wound festered. But he crouched beside her anyway, shrugging out of his coat and laying it over her, gripping her free hand with his own. Her head turned toward him, eyes very wide, and he waited as her breath came slower and slower until she finally went still.

Behind him, from the direction of the river, there was a dull boom, much louder than a cannon-​shot. Marcus didn’t need to hear the sounds of stone tumbling into water to know what that meant. Janus’ men had blown the bridge.

The battle of Satinvol was over.